Fade the fingers across the face,
and please tell no one son.
Speak not of the riddle, the fiddle
who played a little of some.
We err in our ways we fault,
we shall be happy with what we have.
Some things never forgot.
The earth burns, I’m not glad.
I am upset I have regrets, I fret.
That’s why my tune is often sad.
I need that which I have to forget.